


𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥 • 𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗶𝘂𝘀 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸

by quEEnVi24



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Asian Character(s), Beauxbatons, Biracial Character, Black Character(s), Foreign Language, French, French Characters, Harry Potter - Freeform, Les Misérables References, Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Multi, Poverty, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Romani Character, Room of Requirement Shenanigans, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quEEnVi24/pseuds/quEEnVi24
Summary: Monet Savatier came to England at fifteen with one suitcase, the clothes on her back, and a sister she vowed to protect until the day she died. With her enigmatic, harrowing past  seemingly behind her, she starts over at Hogwarts with high hopes of a new beginning. But when a war begins to loom on the not-so-distant horizon, and the demons in the deepest, darkest pits of her history return to the surface, Monet can only watch as her world falls to pieces before her very eyes.And Sirius Black is the last person she would expect to fix that beautiful disaster.[𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: This fic contains references to prostitution, terminal illness, homophobia, blatant racism, anti-Romani sentiment, use of slurs, violence, references to trauma, war, and sexual assault, and depictions of death. If any of this affects you and/or your mental health, do NOT read this.]
Relationships: Apolline Delacour/Monsieur Delacour, Celeste Savatier (OC)/Rein Albrecht (OC), James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Gideon Prewett, Orion Black/Walburga Black, Regulus Black/Rein Albrecht (OC), Sirius Black/Monet Savatier (OC)





	1. | 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥 |

_an extended summary of…_

**…༒ ꧁ BEAUTIFUL DISASTER • sirius black ꧂༒ …**

[loosely based off of victor hugo’s _les misérables_ ]

°*°

IN THE TRIVIAL THROES OF HUMANITY, there are all kinds of different, unique people, each a different card in the hands of the deities ruling over the heavens. Some of those people yearn to embark on a lifelong adventure and follow their myriads upon myriads of dreams, while others are content to stay in their humble, cozy abodes for who knows how long. Some search for a purpose in their otherwise mundane, humdrum lives, while others whittle and rot away aimlessly until death finally arrives to wrap them in its lethal, dark embrace. 

AMONG THE STORIES PASSED DOWN from generation to generation and in the pages of legends and lauded lore, there are those who find success in their goals, whatever they may be. There are those who really do get to throw themselves into the journeys of their dreams, those who make their search for a point in life a perfect reality, those who find their other half and settle down with them in a moment of pure, untainted true love.

AND THERE ARE THOSE WHO reach for the stars only to be mercilessly thrown back down to the earth; those who only find failure when they looked for success.

BUT ROCHELLE SAVATIER never actually expected to be part of that unlucky bunch.

ROCHELLE, BARELY TWENTY-THREE, a pureblood fresh out of Beauxbatons, and living a new, comfortable life in Paris, wanted nothing more than to embark on a fairy tale romance and be swept off her feet. She wanted a suitor brimming with unabashed chivalry and love, proclamations of adoration, and a burning desire to spirit her away into his strong, warm arms when they were alone together, a man willing to shower her with romantic gestures and poetic words while she gave him even more love in return. Rochelle yearned for her own happy ending above all of her other wants, hoping for one constantly when she wasn’t on the hunt for a job or trying to find ways to pay her rent.

AND FIND A SUITOR SHE DID, or so the ever-hopeful Parisian romantic had thought.

FÉLIX DESJARDINS WALTZED INTO HER LIFE with all the bravado and courage of a bonafide prince when Rochelle found herself working with him as an apprentice Healer. That man was the very image of light and perfection, a handsome, human Apollo with his sun-kissed skin, rich, deep brown waves of hair, and twinkling, bright green eyes that could easily remind one of the emerald-tinted waves fresh from the Mediterranean Sea itself. His laugh was ethereal and light, bringing nothing short of amusement and a smile to everyone who could hear it, particularly Rochelle, who had the fortune of hearing it while he made jokes from his desk right next to her. Eventually, after three months of silent, languid pining, it happened that Rochelle found the courage to strike up a conversation with such an attractive, kindly man one morning, and from the seed of that one little talk, a bright, beautiful flower of romance would bloom. Passion and romance flooded the relationship of Rochelle Savatier and Félix Desjardins from the first month of seeing each other, ranging anywhere from stolen kisses in the dead of night to heated, seductive moments in the privacy of either of their apartments. Their mornings began waking to the feeling of their fingers entangled in each others’ hair, and their nights usually ended with their hands clasped and their bodies heatedly entangled with each other. Suddenly, after years of hoping for a dreamlike romance, true contentment found its way into Rochelle’s mind and her shining, sapphire blue eyes. She became eternally devoted to her handsome, ethereal lover— _her dearest Félix_ —and resolved to cultivate that sweet blossom of love the two of them had managed to create.

BUT LIKE ALL INHUMANLY BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS, their little blossom was not meant to last.

WHEN THE COOL, FLOWERY MARCH OF 1959 STARTED CREEPING into the depths of Paris, Rochelle Savatier suddenly found herself heaving the contents of everything she’d eaten into the toilet nearly every day. And if the sudden sickness wasn’t enough, her mind became addled and attacked by an onset of unpredictable mood swings and maddening hormones, forcing outbursts and discontent out of her body as the spring went on. It soon became apparent that the symptoms and discomfort weren’t signs of a life-threatening illness, but signals of a child growing in her womb, a baby that made Félix Desjardins vanish from Paris the moment Rochelle told him about it because he clearly wanted nothing to do with it.

AND THAT WAS HOW ROCHELLE SAVATIER’S beautiful fairytale ended, leaving a financially struggling woman three months into her pregnancy in its wake. The whole situation served as a wake up call for her, a splash of cold water in her face that served to remind her how badly her little romance had ended and that it wasn’t worth pursuing any longer.

ON A CRISP, COLD LATE OCTOBER EVENING, five months after Félix and Rochelle parted ways, a baby girl came into the world. Rochelle had wanted a quiet, easy birth; but her daughter clearly disagreed. The baby took ten hours of blood, sweat, and tears to leave her mother, and she came out red-faced and bawling at the top of her tiny lungs. Her mother named her Monet Sinclaire Savatier (an epithet that only partially made sense because _Sinclaire_ , alluding to a holy figure, didn’t fit at all because that baby was obviously not made out to be a saint). She ended up with hair as dark and soft as her father’s, and eyes the same shade of blue as her mother’s, a little blend of the broken parents that had created her.

FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS, Rochelle Savatier raised her baby alone while she bounced around jobs and tried her hardest to provide for the both of them. It was in a smoky, upscale café in which she worked as a waitress did she meet Félix for the final time. When she ended up serving him that evening for dinner, they locked eyes, sharing a glint of recognition as they both seemed to remember everything they had done, everything they had been through, everything they’d missed…until the two of them were losing themselves in each other in a cheap hotel room overlooking the Seine, just like they had all those years ago. When morning came, Félix Desjardins vanished yet again, _this time for good_ , and Rochelle found herself with child yet again.

UNLIKE HER SISTER, CELESTE AMÉLIE SAVATIER arrived in the warm late spring, and quietly as can be. Whilst Monet’s response to being born was absolutely demonic, Celeste’s, like her given name, was angelic, with the second, chestnut-haired baby barely making a sound after she came into the world. After her second child arrived, Rochelle worked even harder to find a stable job and remain sane for her darlings, her precious little girls. When she fell on hard times, she turned to desperate measures, sometimes selling a large chunk of her thick, beautiful chestnut hair for someone to make a wig, sometimes even selling her own body to the highest bidder, all to provide a future for her family.

AND THEN, IN THE MIDSUMMER DAYS OF 1970, ROCHELLE fell ill with a disease caught from a session with one of her customers, and like Icarus, whose wings melted when he flew too close to the sun, she took her desperation too far and ended up falling on her deathbed just a month after that. In a weak, trembling voice in the final day of her pitiful existence, Rochelle held her eldest daughter’s hand and made her promise to care for Celeste when she was gone. Not even an hour later, thirty-five year old Rochelle Savatier flew up to the heavens, leaving two orphaned little girls in the slums of Paris behind.

WITH HER MOTHER DEAD AND NO ONE TO TURN TO, Monet Savatier resolved to uphold the vow she had made. With a chunk of her mother’s earnings used to send the girls to Beauxbatons, she turned to the occasional theft of food and water to feed herself and her little sister—her innocent, sweet, kind Celeste—until she was inevitably shipped off to Beauxbatons and left her sister in the care of a family of kind neighbors, old friends of their mother’s.

BUT AT SOME POINT, something that only Monet knew about went terribly wrong. No one knew exactly when that _something_ had come to pass—either during her four years at Beauxbatons or the summer that came right after them—but it forced Monet Savatier, now fifteen, a star student with a bright future ahead, out of school and out of the country, taking a suitcase with her few belongings, the clothes on her back, and Celeste with her. For a reason only the two of them knew (Celeste found out why the moment before they left), the Savatier sisters fled Paris and rushed off to England, seeking refuge and a little apartment in London. Once out of France, Monet salvaged the money she earned from her part-time jobs as a teenager in France and the last bits of earning Rochelle Savatier had saved for her children, using her money to transfer to pay the rent and send herself and Celeste to that safe haven of Hogwarts. Armed with the English they’d learned from Beauxbatons and their knowledge of navigating a harsh, cruel world, the sisters entered Hogwarts in hopes of starting over on a clean state, away from the darkness of their pasts that forced them out of France.

BUT THE DEMONS LURKING IN THE SHADOWS are bound to resurface eventually, and no skeleton can stay hidden in a closet for good, so in time, the ghosts of the Savatiers’ lives soon followed them to England. What would follow would change the course of magical history as the world knew it, an uproar that would shift the entire world and bring dozens to their knees or even to their graves. It would be a cataclysm that would alter the lives of many and ruin the prospects of a few, one that would begin not even a few months after the Savatier sisters entered Hogwarts. 

AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING that could be made out of such a shift that would shake the foundation of the entire magical world: _a beautiful disaster._

°*°


	2. ɪ. CONVICT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced to our intrepid heroine, and the story truly begins.

THE MORNING SUN’S RAYS of the eighteenth of September blew into the Slytherin girls’ dormitory like leaves onto a lawn on a windy day, filling every crevice of the windows’ shiny panes and casting light onto every bed in the room. Hardly any of the girls fast asleep in their beds stirred in their slumber, their only movements ever being the occasional sigh and the natural, every so often twitching of their limbs. 

But one bed in a far, cozy corner of the dormitory, even that early in the morning, somehow managed to be empty. Before sunlight had even begun streaming in through the windows, its occupant had already gotten up.

The bed was absolutely vacant simply because it was early.

_Simply because fifteen-year-old Monet Savatier hated waking up late._

The fifth year stood by the nearest window in nothing but threadbare purple slippers and her old, worn set of flannel pajamas, watching the sun rise over Hogwarts and slowly fill the sky with gold. The sight of the dawn had always entranced her, the sheer beauty of it freezing her in her tracks and making her watch every perfect second of its arrival. Even at Beauxbatons she’d been the first to get up in the morning just to watch it happen, to observe the colors of the early morning that flooded the sky and brightened the whole world. 

She really didn’t know how long she’d stood there, but at some point, Monet felt her trance fade out of her mind and allow her to step away from the window.

For a minute or two, she ducked under the large, soft covers of her bed and shut the black velvet curtains hanging from its posts. In the comforting warmth and slight darkness around her, Monet dressed, yanked on her green-and-silver tie, brushed her long, unruly mass of dark, abundant curls, neatly folded the wrinkled sheets of her bed, and after deeming herself ready to come out, opened up the fabric that had been surrounding her sleeping area in a warm, velvet cocoon. 

The other girls in the dormitory had already begun to awaken as she finally left the comforts of her bed, the light in the room increasing tenfold as the sun climbed higher and higher into the bright expanse of the sky. While everyone else opened their sleep-filled, unfocused eyes for the first time that day, Monet Savatier was the first to leave Slytherin’s girls’ dormitory, black platform heels clicking softly against the stairs as she left the room. 

As she slowly made her way through the maze of halls that made up the very inner foundation of Hogwarts, those odd enough to be up at sunrise like her stepped out of her way, eyeing her through the occasional shadowy corners of the school or avoiding her serious, imperious sapphire gaze.

Frankly, Monet didn’t blame them.

There was this constant aura around her that either radiated “I-come-in-peace” or screamed “TOUCH-ME-AND- _DIE_ ”, the latter almost always present whenever she had a bad day, woke up late, or just wanted to be by herself. Usually, her more intimidating variant of a resting atmosphere scared her classmates away, leaving her free to spend her time mostly alone and away from the others that could say the wrong thing and bring absolutely nothing but an onslaught of _harm_ —

Monet found herself blanching at those damaging thoughts, those sudden assumptions about her classmates forcing shivers of her spine and bringing unwelcome reminders of the past she fought hard not to relive.

_Respirer, Monet, respirer,_ she commanded herself, the French in her mind like salve on the wounds of her less than pleasant memories, _you know_ they _aren’t here. You’re alright now._

Even if a few microscopic parts of her were hesitant to believe it, she was far safer at Hogwarts than at Beauxbatons. Here, people were kinder, friendlier, far more likely to offer warm support than to throw fiery insults and treat her like some kind of convict.

_Here, no one sneered behind her back because she was an orphan, almost destitute, and the daughter of a whore._

_Here, there was no one who was branded her worst adversary, no one who argued and fought and chained them both to a cycle of vicious enmity until it reached a breaking point—_

_N’y pense pas_ , Monet thought quickly, shutting away the list of reasons why she was far better off in England after she’d run from France with all her belongings and her tail between her legs. With her mind cleared in a few seconds, she collected herself and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.

She was among the first to sit down at one of the long, rough wooden tables filling the enormous lunchroom, grabbing a plate and filling it with a spoonful of hot scrambled eggs, a steaming pair of andouillettes, and a little éclair with a smidge of chocolate (although a part of her that always required pure _authenticity_ in French food refused to call it so, because Monet had eaten many a proper éclair and the thing on her plate could hardly pass as such). As the minutes ticked by, more students flooded the Great Hall, sitting and joking with friends that Monet did not know or remotely care about. It was a normal morning at Hogwarts, with the occasional hex shot at a student for a good laugh or a sprinkle of heated banter from another part of the room, a short time of controlled, lovely chaos while hundreds of up-and-coming wizards ate the first meal of the day.

“Monet, I’m here!”

The voice, a little high-pitched, familiar, and addled with cheer, made Monet raise her eyes, focusing on the source of the words she’d just heard. She found that source in mere seconds, and as soon as it caught her eye, the corners of her lips shifting upwards and curving her mouth into a warm grin. 

In the wake of a lifetime of struggles, salvaging, stealing, and utmost darkness, there were few things left in the world that could make Monet Savatier genuinely smile. 

But even after all those years, Celeste Savatier continued to remain one of them.

Monet’s little sister, fourteen, just starting her fourth year, and half a head shorter than her, stood next to her her with a happy smile gracing her lips and deepening the noticeable, adorable dimples that added little curves and lines to her face whenever she grinned. Her chestnut curls, messy, just like their mother’s, and so very different from Monet’s impossibly dark, much neater hair that only resembled the locks of one Félix Desjardins, spilled over her shoulders and unabashedly covered her Hufflepuff tie and the rest of the top half of her uniform. While her sister’s eyes only had the subtle hint of a glimmer in them, like a pair of old, misty pearls, Celeste’s were constantly bright and shining, as if they were a set of freshly cut sapphires for a new engagement ring. The younger Savatier sister was a girl who radiated innocence, warmth, and light that attracted potential friends and acquaintances far and wide.

She was a girl that Monet Savatier would lay down her life for at any given moment, would protect _until the day she died._

Celeste Savatier was the one person she had left, her entire world, her life as she knew it. Her little sister had been everything to her even before their mother had died, someone too innocent, kind, and angelic for this world that Monet knew she had to love and protect from the very beginning, even if they were now put in different houses. She didn’t know what she would do if something happened to her precious, little sister that was too pretty and nice for her own good, the light of her life, so Monet did everything she could to keep her safe and warm, away from the horrors and twisted trifles of the cruel world around them.

“Morning, Celeste,” the older of the two replied while her little sister plopped down beside her, taking a roll from the middle of the table before meeting Monet’s eyes, “ _As-tu bien dormi_?”

“ _Oui, et tu_?” Celeste murmured cheerily, biting into her roll with what her sister assumed was a pleased sigh at its taste.

“ _Moi aussi_ ,” Monet responded without a moment’s hesitation, remembering the comforting warmth of her bed and the solid eleven hours of rest she’d managed to get, “Honestly, I’m not surprised. You Hufflepuffs probably have the mostly comfortable dormitories in this entire school, no wonder you managed to sleep well.”

“Tell me about it. I swear to Flamel, we’ve got oil diffusers literally in every corner of the dorm,” Celeste laughed, then frowned at her sister’s plate, “Wait, what’s that?”

The Slytherin, noticing that the girl beside her was indicating the abomination that the Hogwarts staff had the absolute _gall_ to call an éclair, wrinkled her nose in pure distaste, “Apparently, it’s an _éclair_.”

“ _Sacre bleu_ , the people here call _this_ an éclair?” Celeste groaned, eyes drooping unhappily as her expression turned equally unappeased at the food. “Goodness, maybe we’ve ought to teach the kitchen staff how to make the actual thing, not this complete—!”

“It’s alright, Celie, I’m sure the staff will find out about the authentic version one day or another,” Monet sighed, using the diminutive of Celeste’s name their mother had so often said while her sister continued to eye the ‘éclair’.

As Celeste stopped visibly cringing at the poor éclair which had done absolutely nothing wrong to offend them but exist, Monet’s steady blue gaze swept around the room, glimpsing the faces of random students she’d gotten to recognize over her first eighteen days at Hogwarts. The ever-raucous, dashing duo of Fabian and Gideon Prewett were busily laughing and turning Mary MacDonald’s hair rainbow, while Lily Evans chatted vigorously with one Severus Snape. The English pouring from everyone’s mouths was joyous and friendly, so very understandable and fun that Monet couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia because of it.

She, too, had been talking like that not even a few months ago at Beauxbatons, with friends and other girls that she’d left behind after her and Celeste’s mad dash to London.

In that room of cheery, unassuming teenagers, Monet Savatier felt so very out of place— _not unlike a sworn convict in a land full of innocent civilians_ —with nary a friend or acquaintance besides her own little sister to talk to. In this unfamiliar school, with only Celeste by her side and the darkest points of her past gone, she navigated the world as a friendless, observant outsider, hoping for the best and praying that the most horrendous skeletons locked away in the closet of her Beauxbatons memories would never once break out.

_Beauxbatons_ , _anything_ but a reminder or a tiny trace of _Beauxbatons_ , would ensure her and Celeste’s utmost safety at Hogwarts, and she’d be damned if that nightmare crept back into her life and upended everything, and this time, would leave her with absolutely no chance of escape.

“Monet? Um, _bonjour_ , _Monni_?”

Celeste’s concerned voice, paired with the use of their deceased mother’s nickname for ‘Monet’, snapped her out of her trance in an instant. Monet turned to look at her sister, noticing that her little dimples now crinkled to express nothing but worry. 

“Ah, sorry, I just spaced out,” the older Savatier murmured in apology, “Did I upset you?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Thinking about… _that_ again, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright, I understand, it’s been on my mind too.”

There was a small, uncomfortable silence between the sisters as they each reminisced memories too deep to forget, one that was broken when Monet spoke up again.

“Celie, if you ever need to talk about it…” She began, clearing her throat awkwardly before continuing, “seriously, just don’t even ask, we can have a nice chat about it. Really, I—!”

“Yeah, sure, _Maman_ ,” Celeste shot back with a wry little grin that creased her dimples yet again, making both of them laugh, then checked the watch of an unsuspecting student walking by, “Oh, goodness, it’s already five minutes till class, we’ve got to go! _À plus tard_!”

With that, in a blur of chestnut curls and quick, rushed French, the younger Savatier practically flew out of the Great Hall, clearly not at all in the mood to miss her Potions lecture with Professor Slughorn that morning. As she watched her sister go, Monet waltzed out after her, careful not to trip over anyone else in her hurried path as she made her way into the halls and straight to the immaculate, ancient Transfiguration classroom not too far away. 

That morning, Monet Sinclaire Savatier, the convict among innocents, traipsed over to class with nothing on her mind but the mentality of getting through the day and completing all that was assigned, all she had to do to survive in that unfamiliar world called Hogwarts. 

But in the far away crevices of an another land across the English Channel, the faint ghosts of her vile, nightmarish past grew louder and came knocking—no, _pounding_ —on the inside of the closet in which they were locked away. Memories and tidbits of that past life soon began resurfacing, resurrecting from the ashes when the Savatier sisters thought they were long dead. Suddenly, they would join the ghosts in the closet, breaking their prison from the inside out.

The lock on Monet’s deep, damaging little closet soon began to rattle.

Later, it began to loosen.

_And soon enough, it would fly off the door, and everything the Savatiers feared would come rushing back out._

_.꧁꧂._

_**// Alright, that’s it for Chapter One! The Marauders and a few other characters are going to be introduced reallysoon, just so you know! Feel free to rant in the comments about the characters, plot, or anything else, everybody! //** _

_ TRANSLATIONS:_

_Respirer_ [FRENCH: Breathe ]

 _As-tu bien dormi?_ [FRENCH: Did you sleep well?]

_Oui, et tu?_ [FRENCH: Yes, and you?]

_Moi aussi._ [FRENCH: Me too.]

_Sacre bleu_ [FRENCH: (equivalent of exclamations like Oh my god/Damn it) ]

_Maman_ [FRENCH: Mom ]

_À plus tard!_ [FRENCH: See you later!]


	3. ɪɪ. AT THE END OF THE DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, we meet a quartet of four boys, and of course, minor chaos ensues.

“MY, WHAT AN EXCELLENT response, Miss Savatier! Fifteen points to Slytherin.”

Professor Slughorn’s jolly, booming voice reverberated through the walls of the Potions classroom as Monet calmly lowered her hand, letting her mind rest from answering a particularly trifling question. Around her, some students eyed her with a twinge of admiration, others even with _jealousy_ , while her fellow Slytherins sent her congratulating grins and whispered amongst themselves about their luck of getting a smart new student in their house. 

Monet, having known herself for nearly a good sixteen years, figured that she wasn’t the most brilliant girl in the whole universe, but Potions and a few other subjects came to her easily, so she was free to answer anything thrown at her without sounding like a complete _idiot_. Her will to reply to questions tossed around in class had earned her house many a round of points since her first day of school, an ability that earned her a few candid, nice ‘ _thank you_ ’s from her classmates every now and then. It was honestly nice to get praise from the strangers she was just getting to know, one of the new comforts she was only on the cusp of discovering at Hogwarts.

_Because at the end of the day, praise and niceties were always lovely to hear._

_At the end of the day, they only added to the cocoon of safety and temporary positivity Monet had built around herself—and whenever she could manage, Celeste—helping her keep building a barrier that protected herself and her secrets from the world._

“Now, now, everyone, as much as you’d all _love_ to stay here a little longer…” Professor Slughorn’s tone was teasing as he broke the silence of the classroom, “I’m afraid class is dismissed for today. See you on Thursday!”

There was a collective, rhythmic rustling of papers and screeching of pushed back chairs as everyone stood up to go. Friends latched onto friends, straps of schoolbags wrapped around robe or shirt-clad shoulders, shoe heels clicked with every step on the pristine tile floor, and a million other actions were set in motion as soon as class ended, each one emptying the classroom just a little more. As a flurry of movement permeated the Potions classroom, Monet took her leave, eyes on the door and hands on her books as she left.

It was only the twenty-eighth of September at this point, with hints of the imminent, bitter late autumn barely even creeping into the air, and the heat of the day warmed the normally chilly castle walls. The hallways buzzed with students fresh out of class, filled to the brim with clumps of teenagers Monet had to carefully step and slide around to avoid a bout of tripping, to meet her sister in the library for a snack and study time without getting bruised or bumped into.

A mere second of navigating around her classmates later, a stray shoulder slammed into her back, making her double over with a sharp, annoyed huff.

“Holy Merlin, the Slytherins won’t _believe_ what hit them tonight,” a voice, clearly that of a boy and husky with malevolent laughter, chortled, “Those poor bastards won’t even recognize their common room!”

Monet whipped around with a glare, folding her arms to face the person who had just laughed—and most likely owned the _blasted_ shoulder that had hit her. “And _why_ wouldn’t I recognize my common room? Care to elaborate?”

The admonishing, cold words barely left her mouth before her eyes locked onto a group of boys in her year, a quartet of Gryffindors known far and wide around the archaic, magnificent grounds of Hogwarts. Even if Monet Savatier was new to the school, she’d heard quite a few stories about that bunch.

_They were called the Marauders._

Their epithet made sense, if one knew of the fact that they were a group of scheming, raucous miscreants who, for the most part, left nothing but trouble and chaos in their wake. They were by far the most infamous rascals in Monet’s year, a bunch of audacious knaves that half the school loved and the other half outright despised, and all four of them happened to be standing right behind her, facing her with matching looks of slight contempt.

At the head of that pack of rascals was James Potter, a handsome, athletic Adonis, Gryffindor’s adored star Seeker with coiffed, sin dark hair and a hazel gaze behind clean round spectacles. He was revered by the majority of the student body, reckless in his activities, whether they be Quidditch, classes, or just loitering around, and the only thing that seemed to be stronger than his massive ego was the ridiculous amount of Bleu de Chanel he sprayed on just to smell unnecessarily good after his Quidditch games. Although that boy could have absolutely anyone he wanted, everyone at Hogwarts with at least two functioning brain cells knew that he pined for no girl besides a certain Lily Evans, who’d been rejecting his stubborn advances for five school years in a row.

On his right stood the shy, diffident slip of a boy named Remus Lupin, a shorter-than-average, incredibly gangly prefect with sandy brown hair, muted green eyes, odd scars marring his face, and the occasional sunspot on the visible skin of his body. He was far quieter than his three boisterous other friends, and far kinder as well, offering apologies and friendly chats to the unlucky students and teachers who he’d wronged during a prank and dutifully helping out those in need or those in pain around him. In his personality was a softness that marked him the innocent, responsible guardian angel out of the quartet of crazy, hormonal teenagers he belonged to, a quality that made him one of the most approachable people at Hogwarts.

Behind him was Peter Pettigrew, a brunette with a rather languid, dark gaze and noticeably chubby cheeks, the shortest and easily the weakest of all of the Marauders. He was brilliant in some ways, but for the most part, he tended to be particularly dimwitted and a tad whiny, the kind of student that in modern, comedic American literature revolving around school life, would be kicked around or shaken vigorously enough by thuggish bullies to have the lunch money in his pockets taken away. He was reasonably attractive and occasionally sweet, but his few niceties were constantly overshadowed by the achievements and oceans of popularity the other Marauders enjoyed, leaving him lonely and sometimes even bitter. 

And the final member of that roguish quartet was none other than Sirius Black, James Potter’s clear second-in-command and Gryffindor’s resident heartthrob. He was tall, attractive, outwardly mischievous, and an evil genius in terms of pranks, Muggle rock bands and various trends, and Transfiguration. His pale face was framed by slightly overgrown, inky black hair that fell into his pair of wickedly shiny grey eyes, and for some reason only know to himself, he wore the same black, studded leather jacket almost every day. Dry comments and well-timed jokes seemed to stuff his daily conversations to the brim, and contrary to the rumors flying around Hogwarts like sugar-high hummingbirds, he was by no means a player; in fact, he was no romantic, and hadn’t actually dated since he got set up with Mary MacDonald back in his third year.

The Marauders as a whole were devious and devilish, troublemakers and terrible influences, a group of adored boys who lived for pulling pranks.

And Monet, frustrated at their stupid tendency to act like mischievous demons in human flesh, wasn’t exactly their fan, to put it lightly.

“Questioning us now, hm?” Potter drawled, raising a rather thick brow. “Aw, you’re no fun at all, _Savatier_.”

_Tu con, you’re pronouncing it wrong_ , the Parisian thought bitterly at Potter’s professional destruction of the word ‘Savatier’, her glare at the four boys intensifying as she continued to irritatedly stare them down.

“Excuse me, but it’s pronounced _Savatier_. _Sa-va-tieah_. Please get it right next time,” she murmured curtly.

“Savatier? Ah, _oui oui, ze French_!” Black quipped dramatically in the most obnoxious fake accent she’d ever heard from his place in front of Potter, earning a round of loud laughter from his three other friends—the loudest by far being Potter—to Monet’s complete and profound chagrin.

“Ahem, anyway…” she huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation, “Can you lot not trash my common room with Merlin knows what? It wouldn’t do you any good, and all you’d do is annoy the living hell out of prefects.”

“Yeah, but then we wouldn’t have anything else to pull off for today, and w-what’s the fun in _that_?” Pettigrew giggled childishly, shrugging with what was clearly feigned nonchalance.

“Holy Flamel, you people are _insufferable_ ,” the Slytherin muttered under her breath, refraining from saying anything else that would be met with derision or could possibly stoke the Marauders’ titanic egos, looking away from the still-chuckling boys with a very annoyed frown marring her face.

“Love you too, Savatier,” Potter and Black chortled right back at her while pathetic, nervous little Pettigrew just grinned at her, then each let out a pained ‘Ow’ and ‘What the _hell_!’ as Lupin smacked them both upside the head with a copy of A History of Magic.

“God, I am _so_ sorry about these three,” the scarred Marauder apologized with an obvious grimace, then glared at his friends, “Would it kill any of you to be nicer? All she asks is to not trash her dormitory and you people start laughing and acting like idiots. Seriously, _grow up_!”

It seemed right then and there that Lupin was the mother hen, and that Black, Potter, and Pettigrew were his unruly band of chicks, so when the latter three were so suddenly and loudly admonished, all traces of their bravado vanished and silence fell over the group. Unimaginable relief settled into Monet’s body at the moment of peace and quiet, and as no one said a word, making room for an awkward, long pause, she turned to leave, nearly whipping herself in the face with her own hair as she walked away.

“Well, I suppose Savatier’s being rather _charming_ to us today,” Black muttered from behind her, chuckling to himself.

“Save it, Black,” Monet scoffed, a frown tugging at her lips while she found herself going farther and farther away. 

“Fine, fine. Then again, for all we know, you could have been much nicer at Beauxbatons,” the Marauder replied without missing a beat, “And honestly, we’ll probably know pretty soon.”

The Slytherin stopped and turned to face him, suspicion filling up her gaze faster than lightning. “What the hell are you implying—?!”

“Some girls are transferring to our year from Beauxbatons in November. Once they meet you, I guess we’ll all realize how _charming_ you actually are, huh?”

And suddenly, Monet’s suspicion flew out of her face only to be quickly and abruptly replaced by sheer horror, the emotion fogging up her gaze like the drops of condensation on a mirror near a running hot bath. The derisive response she had planned to let out died on her lips and turned to ash on her tongue, and she turned around, briskly nodded, and sped out of that hallway, lungs and brain screeching in brutally twined exhaustion and horror while her feet rushed her to the nearest girl’s bathroom.

_Non._

_Non, non, non, non, non…_

Monet’s hands latched onto either side of the closest sink to her body as panic set into her mind, the words that had come out of Black’s mouth turning over and over in her head. She could feel the color draining from her entire being as she realized exactly the dooming, terrifying sentences that the Marauder had so nonchalantly used. Her blood ran cold while the meaning of Sirius Black’s words encased her brain and froze it in place, rendering it unable to think of anything but that abysmal realization.

_Beauxbatons, the very place she had tried her level best to escape for good, had returned to her life._

_Her efforts to run away had been purely in vain._

Like the Titans so feared in the fanciful writings of ancient Greek mythology, Monet and her sister had once gathered every iota their strength and rushed out from the darkness—or in their case, Beauxbatons—thinking that their flight was worthwhile. But just like those monsters, suddenly there came a time when the shadows finally caught up with them, and they’d soon be found and thrown into their personal hell, mimicking the imprisonment of those terrifying mythological beasts in the depths of Tartarus.

Monet’s panic finally took hold of her limbs, and the Parisian, scared out of her entire mind, slumped against the sink in a weak stupor, heart pounding and eyes wide with a boiling, simmering mix of hysteria and emptiness. 

_England, after all this time, was now unsafe._

_She and Celeste were soon to be in a situation almost worse than anything they had ever faced._

She took a deep breath, then allowed her mind to release a third and final thought that seemed to cement her terror into her very soul.

_And her demons were back._

.꧁꧂.

**// CHAPTER 2’S DONE, y’all! I hope you liked this one, guys, even if it kind of cut off at a cliffhanger. Anyways, a very merry Christmas Eve to all my readers who celebrate! Stay as safe as possible, have lots of fun, and be happy. Again, you readers are completely free to rant and rave in the comments, and maybe even guess what happened to Monet at Beauxbatons! Merry Christmas, and stay tuned for the next update. //**

_ TRANSLATIONS: _

_Tu con_ [FRENCH: You idiot]

_Non_ [FRENCH: No]


	4. ɪɪɪ. LIBRARY FUN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, we see Monet remember a sliver of what she hides from the world, and a fun new bunch of mates drop in.

_THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY, right in the middle of the winter of 1973, hit the palace of Beauxbatons with a flurry of snow and ice that encased the entire school. The academy’s massive, beautiful foundation was suddenly caught in a layer of shimmering, wintry precipitation that froze every window shut and formed snow on the once immaculate, pristine spires of the castle’s towers. Sure, it might have been astoundingly beautiful, but the cold was absolutely vicious, terrible to a point where not a single student would have dared to stroll around outside._

_With the bitingly freezing weather outside, it seemed almost convenient that the then thirteen-year-old Monet, not yet at the age when she fled the country, was stuck in detention, serving time in the warm, comfortable Classroom 24601 that obliterated every particle of cold from the outdoors._

_She reclined at a desk in the far back of the classroom, clad in the standard, knee-length Beauxbatons dress of pale blue silk, absentmindedly tracing a finger over a copy of_ The Brothers Karamazov _. Under normal circumstances, Monet Savatier wouldn’t have been caught_ dead _reading Dostoevsky—Flamel knew how dark, tear jerking, and unbelievably psychological his works were, qualities that Monet tended to avoid in her choice of novels—but when there was nothing else to do or read in that stupidly boring, empty classroom, duty called._

 _The only reason Monet was in Classroom 24601 in the first place was because according to Madame Mercier, the formidable Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, surrounding a Basilisk with mirrors was not an acceptable way to kill it. Monet, of course, had protested right then and there because_ why the hell _would it not be acceptable to kill that beast by using mirrors to make its death-inducing eyes backfire on itself? From that, a heated debate that garnered the attention of the whole class ensued, lasting for a solid ten minutes before an exasperated, exhausted Madame Mercier sent her to detention for what was apparently ‘_ disrupting class _’._

“With such a hell in your heart and in your head, how can you live? How can you love?”

_Monet’s wandering finger paused on that piece of writing on a random page, and her lips curved downwards into an ugly, unwanted frown._

_Even if the quote was directed at one of the brothers the story revolved around, she found she could easily answer it, be she Vanya Karamazov or not._

_From the moment her mother flew up to the heavens on alabaster wings, her heart, her mind, her body—her everything—had been raging with a flood of emotions and sickening grief that could have only come from the infernal depths of hell. Yet she still lived; she lived to survive the horror her life had become, feed herself and Celeste, and slowly put herself back together. And she still managed to love after her difficulties and all the bullying she faced at school, even if that love was saved for her sister alone._

_And so, she deduced that the quote was_ dead wrong _; even with such a hell in her heart and head, damn right could Monet Savatier live and love._

_A few, seemingly everlasting seconds of pondering over that phrase, she felt her mood shift to something rather deep and forlorn, a typical onset of reading what was by far one of the most depressing novels she’d ever read._

Mon Dieu, now I’m getting sad _, she thought sourly, biting her lip,_ Screw you, Dostoevsky. Screw you and your deep-as-hell books—

_“Ah, Savatier! Getting rather bored in there, aren’t we?”_

_Dostoevsky flew out of her mind in a sheer second as Monet’s head practically snapped upwards, turning from_ The Brothers Karamazov _to a familiar face in the doorway of the boring, otherwise empty classroom._

It was the face of a girl named Esme Michaud.

A girl that Monet Savatier hated with a burning, fiery passion.

_Esme was recognizable even from a distance, all ink black curls that were far thicker, much harder to manage, and longer than Monet’s, naturally tanned skin that teetered on the border between beige and brown, and wide, shiny hazel eyes that were constantly rimmed by long, mascara-enhanced lashes. She was a solid seven centimeters taller than Monet, two months older, a widely known leader and prefect of the house of Bellefeuille, and by far the most authoritative, rule-adhering girl she’d ever had the misfortune to meet._

_She stood out among the masses of girls at Beauxbatons with her darker complexion and no-nonsense, magisterial attitude, and above anything, Monet_ despised _her._

_And she was right to, because eventually she’d be the reason why she would leave the school._

_The two of them had clashed since their first year, their differences evident from the very start. Esme was Bellefeuille, Monet was Ombrelune; Michaud was from Marseille, a little more respected, taller, and more conservative, Savatier was Parisian, bullied mercilessly, a tad shorter, and far more rebellious…the list was so long that if put on paper, it could be wrapped around Beauxbatons twice over. Any teacher who’d ever dared partner them up for a project had been considered no less than suicidal right then and there, and no girl, not even the groups fawning over Esme or hanging out with Monet, hoped to be close enough to see them fight._

_In all honesty, they could have been friends brought together by shared bullying, if one considered that half the school scorned Monet for being poor and illegitimate, and the other, far more racist half harassed Esme for her darker skin color and Romani origins, but in their case, that was never meant to be. They clashed far too often to be even remotely amicable and to put it very simply, antagonized each other’s very existences, not for their origins, not for their wealth, but because their personalities rendered them completely unable to click._

_“_ Enchanté de vous voir _, Michaud,” Monet snapped through gritted teeth, shutting_ The Brothers Karamazov _with a thunderous bang before looking up to glare at her nemesis, “What are you doing here?”_

_“Getting my textbooks, in case you bothered to notice,” Esme scoffed right back at her, and only then did the Parisian look down to see those very things not too far away. She was compelled to nod in grudging agreement at that, but her eyes remained fixed in a menacing state that marred her sapphire blue gaze._

_“Is that_ The Brothers Karamazov _?” The taller girl sputtered out of the blue, eyes widening in amusement at the book in Monet’s hands. “Holy mother of Flamel, you, of all people, are reading_ Dostoevsky _?!”_

 _“Unfortunately yes, my_ dearest _Michaud,” Monet spat out the final three words with nothing short of derision, “When you’re in detention, believe it or not, Dostoevsky actually seems a tad better.”_

_Esme’s brows went skywards. “Oh, so you’re here for detention, Savatier. What did you do this time?”_

_“Nothing important.”_

_“Define ‘nothing important’.”_

_“_ Fine _, I had a debate with Mercier in the middle of class. Like I said, nothing important, Michaud.”_

_“Uh huh,” Esme murmured after a long, tense hush fell over the two of them, then picked up her books, “Well then, I’m off. Enjoy your detention, I suppose.”_

_“_ Au revoir _,” Monet replied, posture and expression colder than the winter outside could ever be, “Have fun kissing up to the teachers and your lot of screaming fangirls, Michaud—!”_

 _“_ Watch it _, Savatier,” Esme paused in her tracks, turning to face her enemy with nothing short of annoyance, “Mind you, I am a prefect, so sass me one more time and it’s another two months of detention for you._ Compris _?”_

 _Monet, having rarely used an opportunity to be blatantly witty and disappointed at how quickly this one was extinguished, replied out of pure chagrin and irritation. “_ Compris _.”_

_“Good. See you later.”_

_In a gust of ice-cold sternness and cool, collected spite, Esme Michaud vanished from the area, the only indication of her ever standing there being the fading clicks of her spit-shined Mary Janes. And Monet Savatier was dead silent, unable to rebuke her enemy for the rest of the day as she sat through the rest of her boring detention, Dostoevsky forgotten as her mood was outright crushed._

“Savatier? Savatier? SAVATIER!”

Monet snapped out of her flashback quick as can be, eyes darting around confusedly before locating the source of the voice that had brought her back to the present.

Said source was a Gryffindor girl just about her age, who was sitting across from her at a table in the Hogwarts library, all the while giving her a rather concerned stare.

She was Angelique Archambeau, Monet Savatier’s friend leaning much closer to an acquaintance, and her unofficial English tutor.

Angelique had a reputation of being one of the most beautiful girls at Hogwarts, all shiny, slightly fluffy golden waves of waist-length hair, sky blue eyes, the occasional freckle here and there, and a smile with a brightness that had the potential of blinding someone faster than lightning. That girl exuded charisma and energy like fire spreading smoke for miles around, and she had a heart that was brave, honest, and as golden as her lovely hair. When a heart and personality like that paired with bumping into Monet at lunch on the first day of school, Angelique decided right then and there that she would help this ‘poor new girl’ adjust and aid her English, the generous act saving Monet’s sorry head from grammar mistakes that could have cost her more than a few major grades.

It had been rather easy for Angelique to help Monet with her English, since she, raised on Québécois by her French Canadian parents in England, could understand quite a bit of the Parisian’s Metropolitan French and found it simpler than expected to guide her through English. So since the first of September, Angelique Archambeau loyally tutored and taught Monet all the new words and pronunciations she could every Tuesday and Thursday, never missing a lesson like the eternally steadfast person she was.

“Ah, sorry, Archambeau,” Monet murmured, gently pinching the bridge of her nose, “I spaced out for a moment.”

“Yeah, got it,” The only blonde among them laughed, lazily twirling one of her blonde locks around a finger as her light chuckle echoed through the room, “Whatcha thinking about?”

“Nothing much.” _A lie_. “Now what was it we were talking about?”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re thinking about the transfer students coming in November, huh?”

“… _Yes_. I wasn’t really friends with anyone at Beauxbatons, so I’m not really _that_ excited to see them. That’s all.”

_Monet wasn’t lying; she wasn’t at all happy about the transfers. Especially if there was a possibility that Esme Michaud, and all of her secrets, would set foot in England._

Angelique’s expression turned a little suspicious for a moment, sky blue eyes narrowing for only a second before she slid Monet’s Transfiguration essay, written entirely in French, towards her.

“Okay, we were translating this before you ran away to Dreamland, Savatier. Now let’s get to it!”

But before Monet could even open her mouth, there was a loud, cacophonous crash that made Angelique let out a muted shriek and drop the essay. The brunette, only temporarily startled by her tutor’s reaction and the crash, whipped around to see what had caused such a terrifying noise. 

In the center of her vision, right in between the historical fiction and tragedy sections, lay a pile of large, knocked over books. Beside them two Gryffindor boys stood, eyeing the enormous heap of literature rather guiltily. 

Monet recognized both of them, especially the more muscular, taller one of the pair of boys: Evan Choi.

Evan was undoubtedly Angelique Archambeau’s right hand man, sort of like Black was in terms of relationship with Potter. He wasn’t at all the tallest guy in the world, nor did he have the looks of an extremely attractive man that people often drooled over. As a matter of fact, Evan Choi was average compared to the squeal-worthy heartthrobs that the modern generations’ fangirls would scream over; he was on the skinny, yet muscular side, with medium tan skin, rather short-cropped black hair, and deep brown eyes, and above all, had a personality that shone past his physical appearance. He was nice and chivalrous, caring and helpful, the kind of guy that people adored no matter what he lacked in terms of looks.

At his right stood the quiet, rather withdrawn Steven (Or rather, _Stevie_ —rumor had it that the last person who called him ‘Steven’, also known as Potter, got a copy of _Jane Eyre_ chucked at his face two years earlier) Baines. He was shorter and a little thinner than Choi, with thick, rather short, slightly curled onyx dreadlocks that barely went past his cheek, medium bronze skin, and shiny hazel eyes that seemed to stare right through one’s soul. Baines was much more introverted and bookish as well, spending most of his time in libraries by himself, but despite that, he had some rare bouts of showing outright energy and determination towards those he was close to.

Together, the trio of Archambeau, Baines, and Choi was colloquially known around the school as the _ABC_ , thanks to their coincidentally sequential surnames. None of them actually minded the nickname, but more often than not Monet wondered how they put up with something as childish as that name.

“Oh, um...sorry,” Choi muttered nervously, backing away from the books.

“It’s alright,” Angelique sighed, then glared at her two friends, “Now which one of you knocked over the books?”

Baines sighed very loudly, rolled his eyes, then immediately pointed at Choi, who sheepishly raised his hands in surrender right then and there. Monet pinched the bridge of her nose, eyeing the pair of Angelique’s friends by the pile of literature with a partly amused and partly annoyed expression. 

“Come _on_ , Stevie, don’t be like that!” Choi huffed angrily, “Besides, if it wasn’t for you asking me to get that one book ‘cause you couldn’t reach it, none of this would have happened, you _midget_ —!”

“Don’t use my height as an excuse,” Baines shot back in his low, monotonous voice, folding his arms, “I might not be that tall, but at least I wasn’t the one swaying in Merlin knows how many directions on a chair! A bloody _chair_!”

“Hey, I’m clumsy and _proud_! Ugh, and just be happy that I’m not the totally _average_ looking one trying to act like Britain’s next top model,” Choi snapped, turning to the blonde in front of Monet, “Yeah, looking at you, _Angie_.”

Angelique let out a scoff full of feigned offense. “Uh, I’m _gorgeous_ , please and thank you _very_ much!”

“Yeah, yeah, think what you want,” Choi teased.

“Don’t listen to that tasteless _moron,_ Angie, you’re beautiful,” Baines calmly cut him off, making the other boy turn with a glare and a genuinely offended screech of ‘Shut up!’.

At this point, Monet was gritting her teeth incredibly hard to hold in a spout of laughter as she watched the banter before her. The tutoring was forgotten as Angelique and her two best friends teased and argued with each other between bouts of their own giggling. She liked those three far better than she did the annoying Marauders, and watching them made her reminisce of days of old for a moment, when she, Celeste, and their little groups of friends would laugh and talk the exact same way.

Suddenly, Angelique started giggling harder than ever, the hiccups and short breaths of laughter seemingly distracting her as she backed up and hit the shelf behind her.

Then there was an ominous creak, a loud yawn from the shelf that had begun to sway unusually, and another terrible crash as half the mystery section’s novels fell to the floor.

“ _Oh no_ ,” Every member of the ABC murmured, faces turning considerably paler as they watched the new pile of literature.

“What in the name of Merlin was _that_?!” The librarian screeched from the other side of the room.

And that was when Monet lost it, hitting the desk with her fist as she let out a torrent of maniacal, heaving laughter.

.꧁꧂.

**// Chapter Three’s done! I’d love to know what y’all think of the old characters or new ones like Esme and the ABC! Anyway, goodbye for now. //**

_TRANSLATIONS_ :

_Mon Dieu_ [FRENCH: My God]

_Enchanté de vous voir_ [FRENCH: Lovely to see you]

_Au revoir_ [FRENCH: Goodbye]

_Compris_ [FRENCH: Understood]

 _“Shut up!”_ [EVAN CHOI: Blatant insecurity]


	5. ɪᴠ. EUPHORIA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a break before everything steadily goes downhill.

MONET HAD ABSOLUTELY NO clue why she’d agreed to accompany Celeste to a party.

Maybe it was because she had zero resistance against her little sister’s pitiful, sad puppy face that accompanied every instance in which she begged for something, or maybe it was because part of Monet wanted to play bodyguard and keep Celeste out of any sort of harm, or maybe it was because she wanted some time to let go and forget that in a little less than two weeks, the Beauxbatons transfers were coming, but either way, she ended up nodding her head after Celeste begged her to come.

That was how Monet Savatier ended up by an emerald-encrusted, full length mirror, clad in black, two inch heels that brought her up from 5’6 to 5’8, a dark blue, chiffon dress that barely brushed the ends of her knees and comfortably tightened around her waist. At Beauxbatons, she’d had her fair share of sneaking off to a party or two, so she’d always saved this dress or something borrowed from her old roommates back in France to wear for these occasion.

She let her dark curls hang loose and untamed that night, allowing them to spill over her bared shoulders and down her back. Her nails were neatly trimmed and brushed with clear polish she’d borrowed from Angelique, her lips were coated in a light layer of gloss, and her eyes were covered with mascara that her mother left her to wear when was a teenager. For once, Monet saw a different girl staring back at her from the mirror, a girl covered in makeup and enthusiasm instead of her plain outfits and recondite secrets. 

There was a knock on the common room door.

“Monet? Are you ready?”

The Slytherin recognized the voice of her little sister immediately, and rushed towards the door, nearly tripping in her heels as her fingers found the doorknob and opened the entrance to the common room.

Celeste Savatier stood not even four inches away, dressed in a simple off shoulder, pink tulle dress that, like her sister’s, was knee length as well. It was a dress that Rochelle Savatier had set aside at one point for when Celeste was older, buying it when her younger daughter was about six one Christmas.

_When their mother had thought she’d see her girls grow up._

Monet looked her sister over for a moment, examining her to make sure there was nothing that seemed too out of place or too revealing on the tiny fourteen year old. For a second, her heart twisted and clenched momentarily as she registered how clear Celeste’s resemblance was to their mother: the thick, shiny chestnut hair, the lovely, round blue eyes, the face shape…all of it brought back memories that all but screamed _Rochelle Savatier_ at the tops of their nonexistent lungs.

“Monni, _je kiffe ta robe_!” Celeste squealed as she eyed her sister’s dress. “ _C'est très joli_!”

“Ah, _merci_ ,” Monet replied with a smile, then frowned as she saw a few people coming down the hall, “ _Pratique ton anglais_.”

“Right, erm, _désolé_?”

“What did I just say?”

“Ah, sorry!”

Monet laughed loudly at that, then stepped out of the dormitory and closed the door behind her, standing next to Celeste. “Let’s go, you don’t want to be late, right?”

“Right!” Her sister agreed, vehemently nodding her head at that as she ran ahead, messing up her curls, “Now come on! I’m pretty sure the party’s started!”

The older Savatier let out an indignant huff as she ran after the tiny brunette, furrowing her brows while she failed spectacularly to glare at her from behind, “Celie! Celie, _attends-moi_ —!”

“Oi, _pratique ton anglais,_ you hypocrite!”

“Oh, hush!”

The sisters burst into a cheery fit of giggles when Monet caught up to Celeste on the flight of stairs leading to the floor above the Slytherin dormitory. The marble tile and smooth stone beneath their shoes steadily clicked away as they kept walking, talking and laughing while they slowly but surely reached the site of the party.

_The Room of Requirement._

Monet had heard of that secret place before, but she’d never been inside, and as soon as she walked in, her mouth fell open in awe.

The entire area was stuffed to the brim with gilded balloons, harsh, bright lights, and streamers in every color of the rainbow, and the floor was decked with tables and laughing, dancing teenagers. The place reeked of a plethora of snacks, perfume both expensive and cheap, drinks of all kinds—and _Good Lord,_ was that _bourbon_ and acetone, no, not acetone, definitely _vodka,_ she’d just caught a whiff of?—and of course, it held the lingering scent of smoke from the chandeliers laden with golden candles above her head. 

Celeste’s eyes lit up like a pair of shiny little francs at the sight of that party, and a smile crawled its way up her angelic face as she stepped forward with the intention joining everyone else in the room.

But before the younger Savatier could get as much as a foot away from the entrance, Monet caught her arm and pulled her closer, looking down to meet her sister’s gaze.

“Now you listen, _mademoiselle_ ,” she whispered, invoking the same stern warning tone that their mother would use whenever they misbehaved, “I don’t want you running off and going crazy tonight, so pay attention. First of all, if you’re going to sing, please keep it to a minimum or your voice’ll be gone for two days straight. Try not to dance too much. Don’t reply if a stranger is flirting excessively with you or making…uh… _innuendos_.”

“Innuendos?”

“Celie, you know what I mean.”

Celeste flushed bright red. “R-Right. Anything else?”

“Oh, and don’t you _dare_ touch any of the drinks. They’re either alcoholic or spiked, I smelled alcohol in here from a mile away.”

There was quiet as Celeste shifted in her spot, looking up at her sister with understanding, innocent eyes until she sighed and nodded. Her face lit up with a grin as she hugged Monet, then stepped away, running towards the party.

“Alright, got it! I’ll be safe, now go have fun!”

With that, the younger Savatier vaporized into the crowd, disappearing before Monet’s very eyes. After a few more seconds of standing around and watching the crowd ahead, she steeled herself and stepped into the masses in front of her.

In an instant, she was flooded by a sea of teenagers, lost in their incessant movement, singing, dancing, drinking, and so much more that she couldn’t comprehend they were doing. She clumsily made her way through the crowd, occasionally stumbling over a dress shoe, high heel, or table leg on her way to the nearest plate of food. There was a table piled high with treats up ahead, so Monet, hungry and eager to eat before actually getting involved in the party, rushed to it and picked up a plate to fill it with food.

“Well, I’ll be, Savatier’s here? No way!”

Angelique’s incredulous cry sailed high above the crowd, and it didn’t take long for Monet to notice the source of that shout. A certain blonde with bright blue eyes, clad in a party dress of silk dyed in a pastel blue that set off her features prettily, rushed over to her with a flute of faux champagne.

“Hello to you too, Archambeau,” The Parisian laughed, meeting her tutor’s surprised expression with a teasing smile, “Would it be wrong of me to assume that you’re the one hosting this party?”

“ _Astoundingly_ wrong, if I do say so myself,” Angelique giggled, tossing a few strands of her fluffy golden hair off of her shoulders, “The Marauders are actually hosting this thing. Anyway, why are you here?”

“I came for the food, honestly,” Monet replied with a dismissive shrug in the midst of taking a pair of pastries and setting them on her plate, “and to make sure my sister doesn’t get into any trouble tonight.”

“You brought _your sister_ here?!”

“No, _my sister_ brought _me_.”

Angelique threw her head back with a loud, raucous laugh, then grinned at Monet. “I should have figured. You wouldn’t have come to a party by yourself to save your life, Savatier.”

_Please, you should have seen me at Beauxbatons,_ Monet thought, fighting the urge to oh-so coyly roll her eyes.

“Anyway, I’d best be off now! I’ve got a pair of idiot best friends to keep alive, have fun without me!”

With that, Angelique melted away into the crowd, clearly intent on finding Choi and Baines somewhere in the room. Monet proceeded to eat her pastries, savoring the burst of strawberry cream, sugar, and marzipan on her tongue before she finished them, tossed the plate into the nearest bin, and went to look for Celeste. 

Finding Celeste at a packed, loud party was, as Monet knew too well, an arduous task, as locating a petite fourteen year old who barely passed for 5’3 in a place like this was as simple as finding a needle in a haystack. She avoided dancing, singing, snogging—or God forbid, _shagging_ —couples and friends in every direction, avidly searching for a head of curly chestnut hair, innocent, shiny blue eyes, or a sliver of a pale pink dress somewhere in the crowd.

She tried the left side of the room. _No, no Celeste there._

The right side. _Again, no Celie._

The back part of the room. _No sign of her._

_Damn!_

Monet forced down a twinge of alarm, turning this way and that to try and scan the crowds encasing her from all sides. She could feel an icy bead of sweat slide down her forehead. Her mind raced with part adrenaline and part surprise as she searched and searched, hoping that Celeste, with all her innocence and minuscule frame, wasn’t lost in some darker part of the room, or worse, being serenaded or harassed by some _stupidly_ attractive, dangerous hunk of testosterone…

And she, lost in her musings and rising panic, didn’t notice as she bumped into someone up ahead.

“Whoa, watch it—Savatier?”

Sirius Black, in his signature, studded leather jacket and nonchalantly holding a cup filled with punch and ice, stared at her quizzically, meeting her eyes. His sharp silver gaze softened into something worried as he set down his drink and stepped a little closer to Monet.

“Hey, are you okay?”

The French girl deeply inhaled before responding, desperate for a gulp of fresh air, “Um, in all honesty, _no_.”

In spite of her evident distress, Black had the damn nerve to smirk at that. “What? Did you get stood up or something? Got ditched by your friends?”

“Wh— _No_!” Monet snapped, folding her arms and glaring for a fleeting second. “Black, have you seen a girl about _this_ tall in a pink dress?” 

Lo and behold, there was _silence_ from _Black_.

“Chestnut hair? Big blue eyes? French accent? Um, flat pink shoes?”

“Oh, you’re talking about your sister, huh? Should have figured. Anyway, yeah, I saw her walking around by herself just a minute ago by the posters in the very, very back. Why are you asking?”

Monet paused before responding to that, feeling spots of color high in her cheeks out of pure worry. “I… _might_ have lost Celeste, and I’m supposed to watch out for her tonight. I can’t find her, for the love of—!”

“Okay, okay, first of all, calm down,” Black offered, eyes darting this way and that as if searching as well until they landed back on Monet, “You look like you can use a bit of help finding your sister, and I know this place better than most, so...can I help?”

“Um, yes?”

“Alright, let’s go!” 

The Marauder, followed by the transfer student, immediately began to worm his way around and through the crowd, watching every person that passed him in a way totally reminiscent of a hawk. He easily found his way through the darkest or most crowded crevices of the room, navigating through the party as if he were a fish gliding through water. At some point, towards the less crowded back of the Room of Requirement, Black stopped.

“Hey, I think that’s her!”

Monet was alert and at attention in a heartbeat, following Black’s steady gaze to a petite, pink-clad point in the distance by a card table.

“ _Celie_!”

The tiny point turned around with her mouth in a surprised ‘o’. “ _Monni_? Why are you here?”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Celeste!” Monet sighed, throwing her hands up into the air as she walked over. “Next time, please _tell me_ when you’re going to go off by yourself, because I didn’t know where you were! You scared me!”

Guilt flashed across her little sister’s face, and Monet felt chilling regret at everything she’d just said. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be so worried,” Celeste murmured quietly, and Monet was torn between assuming that her sister was too ashamed to talk normally or that she was on the verge of tears. 

There was a beat before she replied with a huff, pulling Celeste close in a tight hug. 

“Celie, I’m sorry...it’s alright, don’t be so sad! This is a party, you should be having fun now,” Monet whispered, then her tone hardened just a little, “But remember what I told you before.”

“No singing or dancing too much, no alcohol, and no boys?” 

“ _Exactly_. And tell me where you’re going to be right now.”

“I’ll be by the food table and the radio!”

“Perfect, now go enjoy yourself.”

Celeste smiled brighter than any star she’d seen before, then gleefully skipped away, eyes sparkling with excitement as she faded away into the masses. 

“Aw, she’s so bloody cute, isn’t she?”

Monet whipped around to face Black with nothing short of slight stupefaction. “Sorry, are you implying something or am I just—?”

“No, no, I’m just saying she’s adorable!” He sputtered, eyes going considerably wide. “Like, as in, uh, ‘cute baby animal’ adorable! You know, like a kitten, or a chick, or a hedgehog—!”

“Black, baby hedgehogs are _creepy_ , not adorable!”

“Okay, that’s fair, but do you understand my point?” 

“Yes.”

“Good, because I don’t want you thinking that I’m crushing on your sister or something,” Black sighed, then grinned at Monet, “Anyway, we shouldn’t be yelling like this, Savatier. It’s a party, not a brawl, now go get a drink—the punch isn’t spiked, so you can have that—and have some fun tonight.”

With that, Black melted away into the crowd, vanishing from her vision as the place where he’d stood was empty besides the darkness that remained. Monet watched that empty spot for a moment, then turned away and went over to the other side of the room.

She grabbed a cup and filled it almost entirely with ice and punch. She tossed back her hair and took a sip of the drink, relishing its lovely, fruity coolness on her tongue.

And then, after downing the whole drink in one go, she walked into the crowd, joining dozens of other energy and punch-high teens to sing and dance and laugh and enjoy. 

To her, it was nice to have a bit of fun every once in a while, with good, safe punch and nice boys and the occasional friend being a bonus.

It was nice to have a taste of euphoria then.

Nice to enjoy herself before all hell inevitably broke loose.

. ꧁꧂.

_TRANSLATIONS:_

_Je_ _kiffe ta robe_ [FRENCH (PARISIAN SLANG): I love your dress]

_C’est très joli_ [FRENCH: It’s very pretty]

_Pratique ton anglais_ [FRENCH: Practice your English]

_désolé_ [FRENCH: Sorry]

_Attends-moi_ [FRENCH: Wait for me]

_mademoiselle_ [FRENCH: Young lady]


End file.
